Coordinates
by gert
Summary: COMPLETE. What if it wasn't John Winchester sending text messages? PostAsylum.
1. Chapter 1

The sound of Dean's cell phone ringing didn't so much wake Sam up as it reminded him that he wasn't sleeping. After a couple of feeble attempts at rousing his brother--who must have taken more than one painkiller if he was sleeping that soundly, and Sam didn't really want to think about why that would be the case--Sam sighed and flipped open the phone. Silence greeted him, which made Sam think that maybe the caller was...

"Dad?" he said anxiously, sitting straight up in bed. "Dad, are you there?" The younger Winchester was suddenly alert, heart pounding, a million different thoughts racing through his head. "Look, Dad, if it's you, just tell us where you are and if you're okay, okay?" More silence, and Sam felt his initial excitement give way to anger.

"Fuck you!" he yelled, hurling the cellphone across the room and staring in grim satisfaction at the dent it left in the drywall. His reverie was interrupted by a sound from Dean's bed.

"MmmSammy? Wha-happen?" Dean was blinking groggily, halfway propped up on his left elbow, his knife unsteady in his right hand. The blanket had dipped down slightly, and the dim light that filtered through the curtains from the parking lot made the bandages on his chest seem to glow. Sam suddenly felt foolish. And guilty. And then angry all over again at his father for getting them into this and his brother for following orders and himself for being too weak to stop Ellicott, or Dean, or his father.

He blew out a frustrated breath and got out of bed to retrieve the cell phone. "Nothing, Dean. Wrong number. Go back to sleep."

Dean looked sleepily confused, which a million years ago would have been fodder for some brotherly teasing, but tonight just made Sam's heart hurt. "D'ja kill my phone, Sammy?"

Sam examined the phone that was now in his hand. It still seemed in working order, so he placed it carefully back onto the nightstand.

"It's fine. Get some rest." He tried not to pay attention to how long it took his brother to get comfortably settled again, or to the poorly masked pain in his eyes as he did so.

Dean fell asleep again almost at once. Sam didn't.

Dean slept for almost 36 straight hours, which meant that Sam had almost 36 straight hours to torture himself, which he wasn't too keen on. So instead he shopped for supplies, did laundry, ate some generic meals from generic diners, and checked his brother's vital signs every few hours, just in case. Sam didn't think about the phone call again until Dean awoke, alert and exhibiting the one-track mind that always drove Sam nuts.

"Who called, Sam?"

"Well hello to you, too. Aren't you interested in what time it is--or even what DAY it is, Dean?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "No. Who called? You tried to destroy my phone, Sammy."

"Sam. No one. There was no one there."

"And this enraged you so much you took it out on the drywall? Maybe you should have mentioned your anger issues to that shrink yesterday." There was a pregnant pause. Sam filled in the "Or to me" without having to hear it from his brother. He stood, wiping his hands on his jeans and vowing not to get angry again.

"Yesterday was over two days ago, Dean, and maybe I did," he said, because he knew that would effectively end the conversation. Dean's eyebrows went up and his mouth closed. Mission accomplished. Well, except for the part where Dean's eyes got a little bit harder and his voice got deeper and more businesslike.

"Hand me the phone, Sammy." Sam didn't correct the name, and gave his brother the cell phone, noting Dean's reluctance to stretch out his arm to the nightstand.

The older Winchester thumbed through the menu. "Another text message," he said finally.

"So?"

Dean looked exasperated and held up the display. "Another set of coordinates. Didn't you check?"

"Golly, no. Must've had other things on my mind, like my unconscious brother, or maybe my missing father, or ..." Sam trailed off before his sarcasm turned to shouting.

Dean started to shift into a sitting position, and this time Sam didn't politely look away as his brother grimaced and his breathing got more labored.

"You cannot possibly think that we're going on another job based on anonymous coordinates," Sam said flatly.

Dean ignored him, concentrating on swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. Judging by the sweat on his brow, this wasn't easy. Sam refused to help him.

"Of course we are--we have to check it out. It could be a lead."

"Or it could be someone yanking our chain. Or trying to get us killed." Sam was really upset now, pacing.

"It could be dad," Dean said stubbornly.

"Well so what if it is?" said Sam, turning on his brother. "What kind of father disappears and then only communicates with his only flesh and blood by sending them to places where they could die? And then not checking to see if they survived, but just sending more coordinates? Maybe I don't want to find the man who could do that!"

When Sam stopped to look at Dean, he was suddenly glad that his brother couldn't move too well, or else he probably would have been on the receiving end of another right hook. Dean's eyes positively glittered.

"He's our father, and we owe him," said Dean, struggling to a standing position and heading for the bathroom.

Sam waited until the bathroom door slammed shut before replying.

"Says you," he said quietly.


	2. Chapter 2

Dean stood in the shower, letting the hot water work some of the soreness from his body. His head hurt and his mouth felt full of cotton, but those were pretty standard side effects of industrial strength painkillers and a 36 hour nap. Unfortunately, the long rest had allowed the muscles in his chest and arms to stiffen. Dean was now uncomfortably aware that the chest muscles played a part in almost every motion of the human body. He turned to face the spray, wincing as the hot water hit the bruises and abrasions on his upper chest. The momentary pain helped distract him from the rising feelings of panic that had been bothering him in the weeks since Sam had told him they had to go to Kansas.

For once in his life, Dean felt out of control. He'd always been in control; well, as much as anyone could be in control when living a nomadic life and fighting unseen forces. He'd prided himself on always knowing what he was up against and how to take it down, how to watch his father's back and protect his little brother--on being the dependable one, the rock. And now, within the space of a couple of weeks, his brother was having visions, he'd been forced to confront his deepest fear and see his mother destroyed all over again, and his father was still AWOL.

Dean was running out of ideas. Sammy's abilities made him even more of a magnet for supernatural nasties, dad's trail was stone cold, and now Sam was beginning to resent Dean's giving orders--or maybe Sam had resented Dean all along. Dean pushed that thought away, reminding himself that his brother had been affected by a spirit, that he hadn't been himself. "So why did he hesitate before denying that he meant what he said--you know, after he tried to kill you?" asked the still, small voice that had lately come to plague the older Winchester with doubt.

But if their dad was still out there, sending coordinates...Dean latched onto the mysterious coordinates like a drowning man latches onto a rope. Maybe these would lead them to their father and some explanations. "And he has some explaining to do, don't you think? Ignoring you when you needed his help," said his inner voice again. Dean shook his head to clear it. At the very least, he could hunt. And hunting was all about control.

Dean emerged from the bathroom in a cloud of steam, feeling a little more like himself. Sam was sitting cross-legged on his bed, staring intently at the laptop. He glanced up, brow furrowed.

"Did you leave ANY hot water?"

Dean just grinned at him, though Sam noticed that it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Nope," said Dean, heading for the medical kit and grabbing the ibuprofen. His careful movements didn't quite match his casual tone. Sam tried to count the number of pills Dean shook out of the bottle, but his brother anticipated him and cupped his hand, obscuring the view, then tossed the pills into his mouth and chased them down with a swig of bottled water. Dean indicated the laptop with a wave of the water bottle.

"Whatcha got?"

Sam spun the laptop to face Dean. "While you were taking a leisurely sauna, I decided to check out those coordinates--"

"Great, Sammy! Where are we going?" Dean stopped at the look on Sam's face.

"It's Charleston, Dean."

"Yeah, so?"

"Charleston is nowhere near anywhere dad's ever been, Dean. Why would he be making us drive from Illinois to South Carolina in the space of a week? This doesn't make any sense."

Dean merely blinked at Sam. "Since when has anything we've ever done made sense, Sam? We kill monsters wherever they turn up. Maybe dad needs an extra hand. Maybe he decided to go hang out at the Battery and take in the local belles--who cares? Is there a job or isn't there?"

Sam's gaze darkened. "Yes. Haunted swamp, a few disappearances." The younger Winchester paused and drew in a breath. "Doesn't this bother you at all?" he asked quietly.

Dean looked at him sharply. "Do you have some kind of hinky vibe about this job, Sammy? Something telling you we shouldn't take it?"

Sam shook his head. "No, but --"

"Then no, Sam. Nothing about this bothers me. Dad is the de-facto CEO of this corporation, so when he says jump, we jump."

"Just like a good little lapdog," Sam couldn't resist adding.

Dean managed to stop himself from crushing the water bottle in his fist. "We aren't talking about this now," he said firmly.

"Then when?" Sam challenged. "'Cause you know, if you think we can just go on like this forever..."

"What?" snapped Dean, staring down at his brother. "You won't? And what exactly will you do instead? What's the grand plan I'm missing here, college boy? What's the solution? If I'm doing such a piss-poor job, then please share your wisdom, because I'm getting more than a little bit tired of your constant bitching!"

Sam stood, getting in his brother's face. "It's not bitching. It's thinking! Dean, why would dad want us to run all over the country? Why won't he meet up with us? Don't you ever think about this at all?"

Dean stayed still for a long moment, then sighed and stepped back, sitting heavily on his bed. He ran his hands through his hair and looked up at Sam. "It's what we do, Sam. If dad is staying away, we have to trust that he has his reasons." When Sam started to protest, Dean held up his hand, placating. "Please, Sammy. It's all we've got."

Dean never said please. That, coupled with the look in his eyes, stopped Sam's reply.

"Okay, Dean. We'll go to Charleston. But if dad's not there..." he didn't say the rest. He didn't have to.


	3. Chapter 3

It took the Winchesters almost a week to get to Charleston, because although Dean would never admit it, he wasn't feeling quite like himself and grew tired after about four hours in the car. His chest was feeling better, but he couldn't seem to shake the headache he'd had ever since they got out of the asylum. Sam noticed that Dean wasn't 100 percent but he didn't push it, figuring that the slower pace would allow his brother to heal and be ready for whatever they were going to find in Charleston. If Dean offered to let Sam drive, well, then he would worry.

Charleston in November was still warm and muggy, although the breeze off the battery was cool enough. If nothing else it was a nice change from the gray and dreary Illinois autumn they had just left. The pastel homes of Rainbow Row and the preserved antebellum portions of the city gave it an atmosphere of genteel tranquility. Dean found himself actually just enjoying the scenery for once, although he didn't let himself relax for long. They had a job to do and a father to--hopefully--locate.

Sam also seemed to appreciate the balmier weather and laid back pace of the old city. Since their father's journal made no mention of a haunting in Charleston, the brothers were relying on newspapers and local legend. The local historians and librarians were extremely friendly and helpful with Sam's research, and while none of them could recall seeing anyone matching John Winchester's description within the past few months, they found the other information he was looking for in almost no time.

Three days after their arrival, the brothers met for lunch at Granny's Soul Food Restaurant, which served the best homemade cornbread Dean had ever tasted. Dean had spent the morning chatting with the curator of the Charleston Museum, while Sam had finished up at the library.

Dean washed down a bite of cornbread with a big gulp of milk and wiped his mouth. "So, you think we need to go check out the old Cashion place?"

Sam, his mouth full of black-eyed peas and porkchop, nodded. The Cashion place was an old plantation that hadn't been restored like the better known tourist attractions around Charleston. Part of the reason was that the land around the house had been prone to erosion and was turning to swamp. The other part was a particularly gruesome murder involving the plantation owner, his wife, and his scorned slave mistress. Pushed to the edge of insanity by abuse, the slave woman had murdered the owner and his family--including his two sons--in their beds with a machete. Local legend had it that when the moon was full the walls of the house dripped blood and the spirit of the murderess returned to take more lives. A spate of recent disappearances convinced the Winchesters that local legend probably had it right.

"The slave woman's name was Abigail. Thought it might come in handy in binding the spirit, since we don't know where the bones are buried," said Sam.

"Yeah, no bones makes it harder," said Dean. "We'll need to bind the spirit to the house and then purify the house. Hopefully that will take care of it. Full moon tonight--why don't we head out there early and set up? I don't want to be caught unprepared after dark."

Sam supposed he should be annoyed at his brother's suddenly overcautious approach to dealing with spirits, but a big part of him--the part that constantly compared himself to his brother and found himself wanting--was relieved. After Dr. Ellicott, Sam's confidence was still a little shaky. And he still wasn't convinced that Dean was completely recovered. His older brother looked a little paler than usual, his appetite had suffered, and he was still popping ibuprofen like candy.

Sam indicated Dean's almost empty plate. "Enjoying real food for once, I see," he said conversationally. "And actually drinking milk--I think it might be one of the seven signs of the apocalypse."

So Sam had noticed that Dean wasn't eating well. Dean rolled his eyes at Sam's pitiful attempt to mask his concern, playing it off as a joke. "Shut up, dork."

"You shut up."

"You started it. Dork."

Sam started to reply, then shook his head and smiled. "You ready to go?"

Cramming the last bite of cornbread into his mouth, Dean stood and grabbed his jacket and their dad's journal. "Yeah."

The Winchesters left the diner and headed back to their motel, mentally preparing for the job ahead. Neither brother wanted to mention the fact that John Winchester had apparently never set foot in Charleston.


	4. Chapter 4

Dean finished tying off the last of the "purification bags" and dropped them into his duffel bag. He'd made Missouri Moseley write down the ingredients for him before they left Kansas. Missouri had been happy to oblige, and Dean suspected it was probably because the thought of Dean poring over a piece of pink flowered stationery every time they prepared for a purification ritual would amuse the older woman immensely. Dean refolded the offending piece of paper and tucked it into John's journal, which he also put into the duffel. Straightening, he checked the clock. 3 p.m. He did a quick mental calculation--he'd taken four ibuprofen at 10 a.m. so technically he wasn't supposed to have any more until 6, but that would be after dark and at the rate they were wearing off...

He reached for his jacket and began to put it on, throwing a quick glance in Sam's direction as he did so. Dean knew that Sam had been monitoring how many pills he was taking, or trying to, anyway, by occasionally giving the ibuprofen bottle a casual shake under the guise of "looking for something" in their toiletry/medical kit. Dean smirked. His little brother was so transparent sometimes. And so easily fooled. Dean had simply bought a couple of large bottles while doing "research," had emptied the contents into a ziploc bag in his jacket pocket and was taking those pills instead. It was good to be the oldest--a permanent four-year head start on a sibling was a great advantage. Well, unless your younger brother had spent four years in egghead training and then suddenly turned into Psychic Boy. It occurred to Dean that most of his advantages over his brother had probably run out long ago. His smirk disappeared.

As if on cue, Sam looked up from the printouts of old newspaper articles he'd been putting away. His brow furrowed. "What?" he asked. Dean's eyebrows rose in an expression of innocence. "What d'ya mean, what? Get a move on, bro. Daylight's burning."

Sam sighed but complied, grabbing his jacket and heading for the door. He paused at the exit and turned to look at Dean. "Well, Mr. Get a Move On? You coming?"

Dean started and replied, "Right behind you." As Sam shrugged and left, Dean reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew four more ibuprofen which he quickly dry swallowed.

It was a thirty minute drive from their motel to the old plantation. Dean maneuvered the Impala carefully down the rutted dirt driveway that turned off of the main road. Fortunately for them, the driveway was on the "dry side" of the property, but they still had to park about 100 yards away from the main house and trudge across a soggy lawn to reach their destination. Finally they stood on the front porch, shaking the mud off of their shoes.

Sam looked over at his brother as they prepared to go in. He was frankly worried--Dean looked pale and his eyes were tired. The whole "give Dean his space" thing wasn't working out, but he was reluctant to bring it up because Dean would probably just deny that he still had a headache and then try doubly hard to prove that he was fine. "Coward," said his conscience. "You're afraid that he's sick because of what you did to him at the asylum, and you just want it to go away. And you say Dean's the master of avoidance and repression." Sam was jerked back to reality by Dean's hand on his shoulder, and the realization that this was the first time Dean had really touched him since Illinois.

"You with me, Sammy?" Dean looked concerned. Up close, the dark circles under his older brother's eyes were more apparent.

Sam forced himself to focus on the present and met Dean's eyes. "Are you?" he asked. Dean's hand fell away and the older Winchester took a step back, looking guarded.

"I'm fine, Sam."

Sam fixed his brother with an "I don't believe you glare" and started to protest, but Dean cut him off. "Look, the floors in here haven't been replaced, and the ground under this place has been soggy for years. Step carefully--you don't want to go through the floor, all right?"

"Dean, we've got to talk about this."

Dean looked puzzled. "Something wrong with the plan?"

Sam shook his head and gestured around them. "No, Dean. All of this. I've tried this your way, tried to be quiet and give you your space and focus on the job, but this is ridiculous, okay? Dad's not here, again. You've been...off...and I'm worried about you. How many ibuprofen have you had today, anyway?"

Dean threw his head back and blew out an exasperated breath, then looked back at his brother, visibly annoyed. "What is it with you, Sam? You have absolutely the worst timing of anyone I have ever known! Why do you only want to have some soul-searching heart to heart Oprah group encounter session when we're about to go on a hunt? Why not when we're in the car, or a diner, or a motel or even a freaking laundromat, huh? The sun is setting, we're about to go up against a homicidal spirit, NOW is not a good time for this, okay?"

"Dean..."

"I know, Sam. Believe me. I know. And after this is over, I'll give you a coupon for one free Oprah moment, okay? But NOT. NOW."

"I'm just..." Sam sighed and dipped his head. "I'm sorry, you know?"

Dean closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, wishing he felt better, wishing he could give his brother the reassurance he needed, wishing he was still the guy with all the answers, but none of that was reality and Dean never lied to family when it mattered. After a moment he looked back up at Sam, letting some of his sadness show. "Me too, Sammy." Then he straightened up and clapped Sam on the shoulder, all business. "Job. Then Oprah. Right?"

Sam gave a ghost of a smile. "Right."


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N - Thanks to all for the feedback. The action should start to pick up from here on out--by my estimation we're about halfway through the story.**

The front door wasn't locked, but the wood had swollen from constant exposure to moisture and Sam had to force it open with his shoulder. The brothers walked into a large open foyer and looked around at what had once been a spectacular home. A winding double staircase directly in front of them led to the second floor; double doors to the left and right led to large open rooms which had probably served as parlors or dining rooms. Not wanting to tempt fate and test the floor's stability too much, Sam and Dean didn't explore beyond the two largest rooms on the first floor. Whatever lived here would come for them after nightfall.

Dean rummaged in the duffle bag for the salt and poured a large circle of it in the center of the foyer. From that vantage point they'd be able to see anything coming at them from upstairs or from any direction downstairs. Then Dean added iron filings to the circle, and topped it off with a sprinkling of holy water.

Sam lifted an eyebrow at the extra protections. "You think you've got enough mojo working, there?" Dean just scowled at his brother and made a show of sprinkling more holy water on the circle. Sam chuckled.

"Okay," said Dean finally, stepping carefully into the circle, "Come on in. We'll stay here while you do the binding spell, then I'll purify the house." He looked at Sam. "Do not, under any circumstances, leave this circle."

Sam shook his head in confusion. "What? Why? If the binding spell works, I can help you purify the house more quickly. We're only dealing with one spirit."

"Yeah, well that's what we thought last time we did this, too, until that other ghost decided to tap into your line on the Psychic Friends Network," said Dean. "I'm not in the mood to take any chances, Sam, and you're a wild card. So just do me a favor and hang out inside the circle for five extra minutes, okay?"

Sam bit back the automatic urge to argue. Being pinned to a wall by a hostile spirit wasn't really an experience he was keen to repeat. Giving Dean a short nod, Sam entered the circle.

The brothers settled themselves on the floor and readied their supplies: flashlights, the bags of purification herbs, a compass for locating the cardinal directions, John's journal with the binding spell, the video camera and Dean's trusty EMP meter. Dean had left the shotgun, loaded with rock salt, inside the bag for now. He didn't want to set off any premature Oprah discussions with his brother.

They sat in silence for the half hour it took for the sun to set, watching the shadows lengthen on the floor, then switching on their flashlights when it got too dark to see inside. As the twilight outside gave way to full darkness, Sam closed his eyes and concentrated, wondering exactly what psychics thought about when they tried to detect spirits in a house. After a few moments during which he didn't feel anything out of the ordinary, Sam opened his eyes again to find his brother looking at him oddly.

"Dude, what are you doing?"

Sam felt embarrassed. "Nothing," he said defensively. "Just, you know, preparing."

Dean's patented shit-eating grin appeared on his features. "You were trying to use the Force, weren't you, Luke?"

Sam punched Dean's arm. "Shut up."

"Detect the spirits you will, young Skywalker!" Dean's Yoda impersonation was horrible, but he was smiling at Sam--a genuine smile--so Sam decided to let the ribbing slide, and instead gave Dean a half-hearted shove.

"You suck."

Dean's no doubt witty reply was cut off when his EMP meter started flashing. He checked it and then grabbed his flashlight, shining it around the room. Sam did the same with his flashlight.

"See anything yet, Sammy?" Sam started to shake his head "no," when his light glinted off of something on one of the walls.

"Dean, look." His brother's light swung to the section of wall Sam's was illuminating. A dark liquid was oozing down the wall to the left of the staircase.

"Oh, man. Is that what I think it is?" A sweet, metallic odor filled the air and Dean's nose wrinkled. "Oh, so very gross."

A faint dripping sound could be heard, and Sam turned, examining the wall to the right of the staircase. More blood. It was coming faster now, and starting to run down every wall in the foyer. "Get ready to meet Abigail," said Sam, picking up the video camera and scanning the room.

"Got anything?" Dean's voice was tense, his flashlight fixed on the staircase. From somewhere above them, a scraping sound could be heard. Sam turned the camera to focus on the staircase.

"No, not--Dean! Look!" Sam pulled his eyes from the viewfinder and looked at the top of the staircase, in time to see a river of blood begin pouring out of the top step and come cascading down toward the brothers.

"Get the supplies off the floor!" yelled Dean, sweeping the compass and herbs into the duffle bag and swinging it onto his shoulder. Sam dropped the video camera into a jacket pocket and retrieved John's journal.

"Do you think the circle's gonna hold?" Sam asked tightly. The sound of a shotgun being cocked accompanied his brother's reply.

"Doesn't matter. Start reading as soon as you see her come into view. I'll handle the rest."

Things happened very quickly after that. The blood that was running downstairs reached the circle at the same time that Sam saw a flicker of movement at the top of the stairs. He glanced briefly down at his feet and saw that the circle was holding, for now--the blood that came into contact with the barrier was running around it, like a river around a rock, and a faint hissing noise could be heard as protective magic came into contact with something much darker.

Sam looked back up at the figure at the top of the stairs. He could make out a vaguely feminine shape, but no facial features. The bloodstained machete in what seemed to be the apparition's left hand, however, was extremely visible, and looked very sharp. Sam began the binding ritual as Dean brought his shotgun to bear on Abigail.

As Abigail realized what was happening, the temperature in the foyer began to drop, and Sam could feel a force like a whirlwind buffeting the perimeter of the circle, pushing on it, testing for weaknesses. Sam kept reading. He was three-quarters finished when the circle's protection gave way and he found himself face to face with a very pissed off spirit.

"Keep reading, Sam!" Dean's voice snapped Sam back to the task at hand. The wind that had been testing the circle was hitting him full force, sending a fine spray of blood through the air, and it took all of his concentration to remain upright and speaking. The room was freezing; Sam could see his breath with every word. Abigail was now directly in front of him and out of the corner of his eye Sam could see her left hand coming up, preparing for the killing blow. Sam faltered, taking an involuntary step back.

"Keep! Reading!" Dean's voice again, it sounded far away and breathless. There was a loud thud, something that sounded like his brother shouting, and a shotgun blast, followed by a splintering, crashing noise. The entire house seemed to vibrate, and then Sam reached the end of the incantation.

"Amen!" he cried, and everything suddenly went still. Sam put a trembling hand to his forehead, wiping at the moisture there.

"Oh, man, that was close," he said in a shaky voice, examining the red droplets on his hand. He turned to his brother.

"Dean? You okay?"

Dean wasn't beside him, and Sam panicked, swinging his flashlight wildly from side to side. "Dean? Dean!" Finally the beam illuminated a hole in the floor about 12 feet to the right of where Sam stood. A shotgun lay on the near side of the hole. Dean was face down on the floor on the far side of the hole.

Sam hurried carefully over to his brother--he didn't want to risk bringing the whole floor down--and gingerly felt for a pulse. Dean was covered with blood, but Sam couldn't tell if it was from Abigail or if it was Dean's own. He sighed in relief when he felt the heartbeat. Then he gently turned Dean over onto his back. Dean groaned at the movement and cracked open one eye, immediately lifting a hand to shield his vision from the beam of Sammy's flashlight.

"Did we get the bitch?"

"Yeah."

"Good." Dean reached out and took Sam's flashlight from him, shining it on his brother's face. Sam rolled his eyes but held still, knowing that Dean was checking him for injuries. There was a long pause.

"Dude," Dean said finally. "You look like Carrie."


	6. Chapter 6

Sam stood, extending his hand and Dean used it to pull himself to a sitting position, but he didn't make any attempt to stand up. Immediately concerned, Sam squatted back down and retrieved the flashlight from his brother, shining it directly into Dean's face. Dean squinted and tried to move his head.

"Stop that," said Sam. "I need to check your pupils."

"I don't have a concussion, Sammy."

"Headache?" persisted Sam. "Nausea?"

"I am sitting in a puddle of blood after being thrown across the room by a pissed off dead chick. It smells like a slaughterhouse in here, man. Who wouldn't have nausea and a headache?"

Sam lifted a sceptical brow, and Dean held his hands up, placating.

"Okay, okay. I got tossed around pretty good back there, and yes, Sherlock, I still have one hell of a headache. Just give me a minute to pull it together, then we'll purify the place and get out of here. I'll get patched up back at the motel." To prove that he was ready to finish the job, Dean got slowly to his feet, trying to ignore the pounding sensation at his temples.

Sam noticed his brother's sluggishness, his mouth drawn down in worry. Then something occurred to him. "What threw you across the room, Dean?"

His brother looked confused, and Sam hoped it wasn't due to a concussion. "What do you mean?" Dean asked.

"Abigail was standing right in front of me when the circle gave way. I stepped back, you told me to keep reading, and then all hell broke loose."

Dean's eyes were wide. "You saw her?"

"Didn't you?"

"No, Sam. I felt the circle give, then that wind hit me, then something picked me up and threw me into that wall over there. I got off one shot, but I never saw anything. Maybe she decided to take me out first--you know how quickly spirits can move."

Sam was shaking his head. "No. When the wind hit I could still see Abigail in front of me. She was lifting the machete. For her to throw you across the room, she'd have to be in two places at once."

"Telekinesis?"

"Maybe." Sam didn't seem convinced. "Something's not right." He indicated the hole in the floor. "What made this hole?"

"Must have been me, I guess. I don't know. Everything got kind of fuzzy after I hit the wall."

Sam scanned the room again with his flashlight, then turned back to his brother. "I think we need to leave."

"Sure, Sammy, as soon as I stick these little baggies in the walls."

"No. We need to leave now. And not just the house. I think we need to leave Charleston."

Dean was sure that he'd be able to follow his brother's logic if his head wasn't throbbing, but as it stood, he was confused. They'd bound the spirit, right? So why did Sam want to run? Still moving carefully, Dean recovered the shotgun, his own flashlight and the duffel bag from where they had fallen, tucking the gun back into the bag. Then he turned to face Sam, focusing the flashlight beam on his little brother. Sam was still, his eyes unfocused and his head cocked slightly to one side as though he were listening for something.

Dean felt the familiar sensations of fear and panic beginning in his stomach. He'd felt this way too often in the past few weeks and he hated it. This was too much like Kansas, and with Sam looking like that, and saying they needed to leave, well, they were leaving. They were leaving right now. Dean didn't immediately discount the idea of coming back later to torch this stupid house, though, just out of spite.

Dean cleared his throat and stepped cautiously closer to his brother. "Sam?" he asked quietly. "Sammy?" Sam's eyes snapped back to Dean's and he seemed to come back to reality.

"Ready?" Sam asked, and Dean nodded, immediately regretting the movement. He paused for a moment, catching his breath. Sam reached out without saying anything and took the duffel from his brother, then started toward the front door.

The door was open, light from the full moon giving enough illumination for Dean to see by. At the threshold, Sam stopped abruptly and Dean almost ran into him. "Hey Dean?" asked Sam in a voice that sounded strangely distant.

"Yeah?"

"Is this loaded?" Sam turned to face his brother, the shotgun in his hand. Dean tensed, a sudden rush of adrenaline surging through his veins. He took a slow step backward, his grip on the flashlight tightening and his feet settling unconsciously into a fighting stance.

"One shot left, Sam," said Dean, searching his brother's face for any signs of rage or insanity. Sam was still again, listening. After what had to be the longest moment of Dean's life, Sam nodded. "Good." Dean watched as Sam spun suddenly to face the open doorway and fired at something Dean couldn't see.

"Run!" yelled Sam, moving to the side to let his brother pass. Dean ran, practically flying down the stairs, the pain in his head exploding into stars with every step. He heard Sam's long strides behind him, gaining, and forced himself to keep pushing across the soggy lawn.

"Keep going, Dean!" Sam was practically on top of him, but Dean could feel his energy flagging. "Just a few more yards!" Suddenly, Dean had the sensation of cold fingertips brushing across the back of his neck, searching for purchase. Sheer terror quickened his steps, and he looked up to see that the Impala was mere yards away. He fumbled in his pocket for the keys, retrieving them just as he felt a hand clap him on the shoulder and spin him around.

Dean turned, tensed to swing at the attacker, but it was only Sam, who let go immediately and stepped back, doubling over to catch his breath. "We...can stop...now," Sam gasped.

Dean just stood still, breathing hard. Black spots moved in front of his eyes, and his throbbing head felt like it was much too big and heavy for his neck.

"Dean?" Sam's voice came from far away and was tinged with fear.

Dean held the keys up. "You drive," he croaked, then his eyes rolled back in his head and he collapsed.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N - Thanks again, everyone, for the reviews. Here's a short chapter (really the first half of 7, but I've broken it up) in case I can't update tomorrow. I just can't stand weekend-long cliffhangers, although this one's kind of cliff-like in its own way. Ah well, help and some answers are coming soon.**

"Dean? Dean!" Sam dropped everything he was carrying and rushed to his brother, kneeling beside him and feeling for a pulse. He released a relieved sigh when he felt one, steady but more rapid than normal. All Sam knew for sure was that they had to get out of there fast--the thing that had been chasing them ("Dean, it had been chasing Dean," an inner voice screamed at him) had abruptly stopped just before they reached the car, and Sam didn't know why, or when, or even whether it would return.

Leaping up, he dashed to the Impala, popping the trunk and retrieving three blankets. He spread one on the backseat and then began the torturous process of dragging his unconscious brother to the car, hoisting him in, and getting him settled. Once Dean was in the backseat, Sam paused to survey the situation. Blood was everywhere, despite Sam's best efforts. "Sorry about the upholstery, Dean," Sam whispered, covering his brother with the second blanket. The third blanket went over the driver's seat, and the bloodstained duffel bag and its contents went on the passenger side floorboard.

Turning the key in the ignition, Sam adjusted the rearview mirror to get a view of his brother. The moonlight turned the streaks of blood on Dean's face black, making the unmarked skin seem even paler. As he brought his eyes back to the road, Sam caught a glimpse of his own face in the mirror. "Carrie" was an understatement. Sam looked like he had just presided over a chainsaw massacre. He grimaced at his reflection, feeling the way the drying blood pulled at his skin. A trip to the hospital was out of the question, so Sam whipped the car around and headed back to their motel as quickly as he possibly could without drawing undue attention. There would be no way to explain their current condition to the cops without landing in jail. Hell, Sam doubted even Dean would be able to lie his way out of this one.

Sam's luck held, as the motel parking lot was completely deserted. All the younger Winchester could think of was getting as much distance between them and Charleston as quickly as possible. He parked in front of their room and got Dean out of the car, hoisting him into a fireman's carry and staggering directly to the bathroom. The first order of business was to get his brother cleaned up, and see if there were any other injuries.

Sam had hoped that Dean would stir as he was put into the bathtub and the spray of warm water hit him, but he never moved. His breathing was even and his pulse was steady, but his skin had taken on a grayish tone. After removing Dean's bloodstained clothes--his leather jacket was a total loss and Sam would probably never hear the end of it if ("When," Sam corrected himself) Dean woke up--Sam realized that aside from what would be some nasty bruising on the back and a bump on the head, Dean hadn't suffered any major injuries from their ordeal.

So what was wrong with Dean? What had been causing the headaches, and why had Dean been attacked by that thing at the plantation? It wasn't Abigail, Sam knew that for sure. But he hadn't been able to sense it until after Abigail was bound, which worried him. Whatever it was knew how to hide, and it was evil. And it apparently wanted to kill his big brother.

Sam finished getting himself cleaned up, then wrapped their bloody clothes in several thicknesses of trash bags and tossed them in the trunk. He'd dump them in a dumpster in another town. He packed the car with the rest of their meager belongings and stole the motel's blankets to replace the ones he'd ruined earlier. Then he got Dean back into the backseat and covered him with a fresh blanket. As he climbed into the driver's seat, Sam realized that he had no idea where to go. Suddenly, Sam heard the faint sound of Dean's cellphone ringing. It was in the trunk, Sam remembered, getting out and hurrying to the back of the car. By the time he located the phone, the ringing had stopped, but Sam thumbed the menu anyway, then gasped at what he saw.

It was another set of anonymous coordinates. For the first time since he had rejoined his brother on the road, Sam felt real fear.


	8. Chapter 8

Sam stared down at the phone in his hand as if it were about to bite him. The first twinges of panic made themselves known as his stomach twisted painfully, but he refused to dwell on it. Instead, he slammed the trunk closed and got back into the driver's seat, turning to look at Dean. His brother was still breathing, but that was about all Sam knew for sure. Turning back around he gripped the steering wheel tightly with his left hand and studied the phone in his right.

"Think, Sammy, think," he said out loud, unconsciously mimicking Dean's speech pattern and nickname. "Where do we go from here? Who can we call?" Suddenly Sam dropped the phone into the passenger seat and grabbed the duffel bag, unzipping it and locating John's journal. He dug through the jumble of business cards and scraps of paper tucked into the pocket at the front of the journal until he found what he was looking for, then retrieved the cell phone and punched in a number.

On the third ring, the phone was picked up. "What's wrong, Sam?" said the woman's voice on the other end.

"We need help, Missouri, and I don't know who else to call," said Sam. The tremor in his voice increased and he cleared his throat to stop it. "Something...Dean's hurt. Something really bad is after him and I can't stop it. I...we're in Charleston." Sam trailed off, knowing he wasn't making sense.

The advantage of knowing a real psychic was that she could pick up on and understand what was happening without being told. The soft voice on the other end didn't hesitate. "You're right to get out of there, Sam. I've got a friend in Raleigh, North Carolina, about 4 hours from you. Her name is Sarah Wilson. If you leave now you'll get there by 7 a.m. your time." Sam looked at his watch, startled. Reflexively he started to stammer an apology for calling at 2 a.m., which Missouri cut off.

"I'll let her know you're coming." Missouri gave Sam the address and directions. Sam thanked her and started to hang up, but Missouri had one more piece of advice.

"Sam, call your father and tell him what's happening."

Sam didn't bother to try and tell Missouri that he didn't believe his father would come, that he was afraid that if Sam did call and John didn't come it might mean that he was dead; or worse, if John did come he would blame Sam for being out of practice and failing to help his favorite son. Instead, he was silent, trying to keep himself under control.

Missouri sighed. "He loves you boys. Both of you. And he needs to know about Dean."

"Yeah," said Sam finally, his voice rough. "Thanks."

"Be careful Sam."

Sam turned off the phone and started the engine. "Hang on, Dean," he said to the still figure in the back. "I'm getting help."

The Impala sped up Interstate 95, Sam pushing it as fast as he could without risking a ticket and subsequent police escort to a hospital. He didn't know why, but he knew that a hospital was not what Dean needed. Sam stopped twice for coffee, checking his brother carefully each time and growing more and more worried. Dean's skin was ashen and cold to the touch, and his breathing and heart rate were slowing down.

At 6:59 a.m. Sam turned onto Ridgemore Road, in what turned out to be a pretty upscale neighborhood near downtown Raleigh. He located number 427 and turned into the driveway, killing the engine and opening the driver's side door in one fluid motion, not bothering to close it behind him as he sprinted up the walk to the front door.

The door opened as he reached for the doorbell and Sam stood staring at a petite brunette woman in her early forties, dressed in a powder blue sweatsuit and carrying a stethoscope. "Hi, Sam," she said, brushing past him and starting to the car. Sam quickly followed, watching as the woman he assumed was Sarah Wilson efficiently checked Dean's vital signs and listened to his heartbeat.

"Carry him inside--I've prepared the downstairs guestroom. Come on." Sarah stood and walked around the car to the front passenger's side, opening the door and retrieving the duffel bag. Off Sam's puzzled look, she hoisted it onto her shoulder and said, "I need to find out what happened. I get better readings by touching objects." Then she started back to the house. Sam carefully removed his brother from the Impala and headed into the house.

"In here," Sarah indicated a doorway to the immediate right of the entryway. Sam entered a tastefully decorated bedroom with a double bed, dresser, nightstand and chair. He settled Dean on the bed, giving his brother's hand a brief squeeze before turning to look at Sarah, who had followed him in. Bright blue eyes appraised him sharply.

"Sit down in the chair and get comfortable," said Sarah.

Sam complied, fairly falling into the chair Sarah had indicated. He looked up at her, questions in his eyes.

"We're going to need to work fast, and I need you as relaxed and alert as possible," Sarah continued. Her gaze softened at Sam's incredulous expression. "Something is using a pretty strong psychic attack against your brother, and from the looks of him it's been going on for a couple of weeks. I need you to go through this stuff, " she dropped the duffel bag at Sam's feet, "and take out any items you or Dean have used in that time frame while hunting."

Sam found his voice for the first time since he'd arrived. "Can you help him? Can you stop it?"

Sarah laid a warm hand on Sam's shoulder. "Our job is to help Dean stop it." She withdrew her hand and gave Sam a small smile. "I've got coffee ready--I'll get us some while you go through the bag." Sarah left, and Sam unzipped the bag, grateful to be doing something constructive.


	9. Chapter 9

_Dean was confused. He remembered blood, and flying through the air,--and boy, that impact with the wall hadn't helped his head any--and then Sam went all Dead Zone on him and then they ran...so how was he suddenly back in the house in Lawrence, shotgun in hand? He spun to look behind him, expecting to see Sam pinned to the wall, but there was no one there._

_"Sam?" he said, taking a few cautious steps out of the kitchen and toward the stairs. He thought he saw a shadow cross the wall at the top of the stairs, so he called out again, "Sammy? Is that you?" But there was no answer. Dean shuddered. He really, really didn't want to go up those stairs, but something was telling him he had to. "Suck it up, buttercup," he berated himself, and started climbing, bracing his left hand underneath the shotgun that was trembling in his right. When he was halfway up the stairs he heard a thump and a faint gasp of pain._

_"Sammy!" His own nervousness temporarily forgotten, Dean took the rest of the stairs at a run and headed directly into the old nursery, scanning the room frantically for any sign of his brother. He finally forced his eyes to the ceiling, and let out a sigh of relief when he saw it was empty. Dean turned to leave, and found himself face to face with a stern looking John Winchester._

_"Dad?" Relief warred with something else--was it fear? But why should he be afraid of his own father?_

_"Dean." John's face remained expressionless, and fear won the battle of Dean's emotions._

_"What's wrong?" Feelings of helplessness and panic added themselves to Dean's confused mental state. The shotgun trembled again, even though he was clutching it tightly with both hands._

_John Winchester shook his head, dark eyes unreadable. "You know, son, I've only ever asked you for one thing, right? To take care of your brother--to look out for him when I couldn't."_

_Dean nodded, his sense of trepidation growing. "Sure, dad. You know I wouldn't let anything happen to Sammy."_

_Dean found himself on the floor before the words left his mouth, the shotgun knocked from his hands and sliding across the room. He clutched his jaw and stared up at his father through the stars that danced in front of his eyes._

_"Liar." John reached down and grabbed Dean by the sides of his leather jacket, hoisting him to his feet and pulling him close. Dean was too stunned to resist._

_"You were no help to me, so I struck out on my own, figuring you'd get the picture. But no. You were too thick to even figure that out, so you dragged Sam back in on some dumbass quest to find me. And what's happened since? He lost his girlfriend, his future, any chance at happiness...he's almost died how many times now? And he's plagued with nightmares and visions. Tell me, son, how I'm supposed to see that as you looking out for your brother?"_

_Dean shook his head. "Dad, no, that's not what..."_

_His father sneered. "You always resented him, didn't you? Smarter, ambitious, able to think about something besides cars and guns and getting laid--and not only able to think about a normal life, but to go have one! Oh, I'm sure it killed you. All you've ever had is the hunt, and you're not even very good at that." John let go of his son, and Dean staggered back, shock and misery apparent in his expression._

_"Dad, please," a whisper._

_His father held up a hand, disgust on his features. "Don't beg. It's pathetic. Look at what you've done. Face it like a man, for once in your worthless life!" John stepped closer, grasping Dean's aching jaw in one strong hand and forcing it upward, so that Dean's face was pointed at the ceiling. Dean closed his eyes, but John only tightened his grip, eliciting a painful gasp from Dean. "Face it!" his father yelled again._

_Dean opened his eyes. Sam was on the ceiling, a bloody gash across his midsection. Then the fire started._

Sarah was back in under three minutes, bearing a tray laden with two huge mugs of coffee and a box of Krispy Kreme doughnuts. To Sam's surprise, his stomach growled at the aroma and Sarah smiled.

"Sugar and caffeine--just what the doctor ordered. And the doghnuts are hot--I made my husband go get 'em about 20 minutes before you arrived. Hot Krispy Kremes have saved more than one life around these parts. Now eat and drink up while I check out what we have here."

Sam shot a guilty glance at his brother, which Sarah caught, and she scowled at him. "Don't be a goober, Sam. You need your strength to help him and you're pretty run down. This stuff should at least help you fake your way through. Now eat."

Sam obeyed, but couldn't help observing, "Did you just call me a goober?"

"Yes, because there are children in this house, and I try to watch my language. But don't worry--if you still haven't eaten after they leave for school, I'll call you something a little more accurate."

"You're married with kids and you're bringing strangers into the house at the wee hours? Your husband's okay with this?"

Sarah just looked at Sam and sighed. "Yes, yes and yes. Long story short, just call me the soccer mom psychic. It is possible to help people, raise children and manage a household. You don't need my life story, Sam. It's pretty freaking dull, aside from the occasional bout of supernatural hoo-ha." She turned her attention to the items Sam had laid out. "Less talking, more eating. We have work to do."

Sam bit into a doughnut, savoring the soft, sugary texture.

"Do you remember when your brother first started exhibiting symptoms--like loss of appetite, headaches, difficulty sleeping?" asked Sarah, reaching instinctively for the shotgun and silver handgun Sam had placed on the edge of the bed along with the other items they'd used recently. She winced when she touched the shotgun, and brought a hand to her chest. Sam flushed, guilt making it difficult to swallow. Sarah turned to look at him, but her gaze was neutral.

"What happened in Illinois, Sam?"

_Dean was on the floor, his chest on fire. "Sam, we've got to burn Ellicott's bones and this will all be over," he said. Was this a memory, or was it happening again?_

_Sam repeated all the hurtful things that Dean had tried to push away after Illinois, his words echoing those of his father in Kansas: pathetic, desperate, loser. Dean squeezed his eyes shut--Kansas hadn't been real. If Sam was here, then he hadn't been on the ceiling in Kansas. It wasn't real. Was this real? He opened his eyes again, handed Sam the pistol, saying, "Real bullets will work a helluva lot better than rock salt."_

_The trigger clicked four times, but Dean wasn't able to muster the strength to overpower his brother--his limbs felt heavy and numb._

_"You son of a bitch," said Sam, kneeling down and getting in his brother's face. His eyes were hard and cold. "You're going to pay for that." He brought the pistol back and struck Dean hard across the face, stunning him. Then Sam reached for the shotgun he had discarded earlier, pushing the muzzle underneath Dean's chin._

_"I'm thinking that the force of this blast will tear your pretty throat right out, regardless of what it's loaded with," said Sam._

_"Sammy..." Dean began, but despair stopped his words. Maybe he deserved to die, after getting Sammy killed--wait, that wasn't right. Something wasn't right, but Dean was in too much pain to figure out what it was. In his mind's eye he saw brief flashes of antebellum homes and a river of blood, but Dean couldn't concentrate on what they meant._

_Then Sam pulled the trigger and everything went black._


	10. Chapter 10

Sam told Sarah about Illinois and then Charleston, beginning with the mysterious coordinates that had appeared on Dean's phone, and finishing with his desperate phone call to Missouri. The psychic listened intently, occasionally reaching out to touch the objects that Sam mentioned as he related the series of events that had led him to Raleigh. When he finished, he glanced at the clock on the bedside table. Almost an hour had passed.

"Sam, do you have your brother's cell phone?" asked Sarah. Sam had forgotten to place it on the bed with the other items, since it was in his pocket and not the duffel bag.

"Sure," he said, standing quickly and retrieving the phone. As Sarah took it from him, her eyes widened and Sam saw fear.

"We have to hurry, Sam," she said.

"What? Why?" Sam's eyes flew to the still figure on the bed. Dean's skin looked waxy; his breathing was imperceptible from this far away.

"I was hoping to have more time to prepare you, but the thing that's after your brother is far more powerful than I thought."

Sam took a couple of deep breaths, fighting to calm himself, to focus on the room, Sarah, and Dean. "What is it? How do I stop it?"

"I'm going to help you enter your brother's mind. This creature is killing him by draining his mental strength and energy--feeding on them and replacing his vitality with weakness and despair."

Sam nodded. He knew all about the ability of spirits to affect the mind. "But we've been to two different places, put down two different ghosts--are you saying they're working together? How is that possible?"

Sarah shook her head. "No, this thing isn't a ghost, but I think it's using ghosts in locations where it can manifest its abilities more easily. It's hard to explain, but whatever this thing is, it isn't strong enough to take Dean out physically--yet. By luring your brother to locations where the boundaries between this world and the next are already thin, it can get to him and get inside his head. Dean's the key somehow...it needs him, needs his strength."

"So it sent us those coordinates." Sam mentally replayed the phone call he'd gotten inside the asylum. "And then it lured me downstairs to Ellicott..." he trailed off and Sarah finished for him.

"Knowing that you would either kill Dean yourself or at least weaken him sufficiently for the creature to gain a foothold in his mind."

Sam closed his eyes, cursing his weakness.

"Don't blame yourself, Sam. This thing is good--it knew just what to play on to get you to come to it. That's what makes it so scary; that and the fact that technically the effects of this attack should have lessened the further you got from Charleston and the creature's sphere of influence. Usually for a psychic attack to work the attacker has to stay in fairly close physical proximity to the victim, but this one is different--stronger--and that's why I'm worried." Sarah looked back up at the pale, fatigued and frightened young man standing on the other side of the bed, giving him what she hoped was a reassuring smile.

"I'll be with you, but since Dean doesn't know me, he might not trust me to help him." Sarah's voice was full of conviction as she continued, "You can do this, Sam. You don't even really need my help--you're strong enough on your own."

Sam swallowed, determination replacing the fear in his eyes. "Okay," he said.

Sarah and Sam sat cross-legged on the bed on either side of Dean. They each grapsed one of Dean's hands, and then each other's, completing the circle. Sarah looked at Sam sternly, blue eyes firm.

"Everyone has fears they keep hidden. A powerful psychic attack begins with the perpetrator planting seeds of doubt and panic in the victim's mind. As the victim grows weaker, the attacker can locate their worst fears and makes them real, locking the victim inside the nightmares in his head. If you fail or die often enough in your dreams, Sam, your physical body shuts down, too." Sarah looked down at Dean, reading his aura. It had already been a pale green when he arrived, and had now faded to a muddy greenish-gray. Her forehead creased in concern.

"You can't actually fight this creature yourself, Sam. Dean has to do that. Your job is to pull him out of his own nightmares and convince him to fight off this thing. But whatever you do, you can't let yourself get pulled into Dean's nightmares, no matter how awful or real they seem to you."

The psychic paused and cocked her head slightly, lifting an eyebrow. "You're more afraid of possibly finding out what your brother thinks of you than you are of this creature, aren't you?"

Sam only gave her a sickly half smile, remembering a sewer and something wearing his brother's features taunting him.

"You really are a goober, Sam Winchester. Your brother loves you more than life itself."

Sam swallowed nervously and focused on Dean's face. "That's what I'm afraid of," he said.

"It's a weakness, true--and it's probably what the attacker is using to get to your brother." When Sam looked up, guilt on his features, Sarah shook her head at him. "It's also your greatest strength. He'll fight if you ask him to, Sam, no matter what."

Sarah closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath, and Sam followed suit. "I need you to clear your mind, Sam," she said, giving his hand a warning squeeze as a snort of disbelief escaped him. "Just listen to my voice and concentrate on the physical connection between you, me, and Dean. How our hands are touching, how they feel...where you end and we begin..."

A sudden vision of Dean sitting in a protective circle with Sam, laughing and asking him if he was trying to use the Force, left Sam breathless. Had that only been 14 hours ago? Sam squeezed his eyes shut against the tears, and held tightly to Dean's hand, letting Sarah's voice lead him.

_Dean was back in Kansas again, but this time he was on the floor, propped against the wall and watching helplessly as the fire creature approached Sam. The shotgun lay mere inches from his right hand, but Dean didn't have the strength to reach it._

_"It's okay, Dean," said Sam. "I know who it is now."_

_When Mary Winchester stepped out of the flames, Dean tried to call out her name, but couldn't find his voice. As if in slow motion, he watched as his mother stepped past him to Sam, eyes only for her younger son._

_"Mom?" Dean finally managed to whisper. "Mom?" Mary turned from Sam and glanced at Dean, but her eyes didn't linger on him for more than a moment. She tilted her face to the ceiling and addressed an unseen spirit._

_"You. Let go of my son!" she said, and Sam moved, freed from the spirit's control. Mary reached behind her, grasping Sam's hand and drawing him level with her._

_As if in unison, the two of them turned to look at Dean._

_"You can have him instead," said Mary, then she and Sam turned and walked away, hand in hand. A wall of flame sprung up across the exit after they left, though Dean didn't have the strength to run or even to call out for help. He didn't have the strength to do anything except sit and wait for the end, alone with his fear and despair._

Sam found Dean slumped in the burning house, eyes closed. Although he knew that the flames and smoke weren't real, he could swear he felt the heat and that the smoke was making his eyes water. He tried to grasp his brother under the arms to drag him outside, but his hands passed right through. Panicking, he looked at Sarah, who was right behind him.

"We're too late!" Sam cried. "He thinks he's dying!"

"Talk to him, Sam," the psychic urged. Yell at him! Wake him up!"

Dean's eyes fluttered open, skittering over Sarah and fixing on Sam. "Sammy?" he asked in a hoarse whisper, lids drooping. "I'm sorry."

Sam tried again to grasp his brother's face, growling in frustration as his hands swept through nothing. "Dean. Dean! Look at me!"

Cloudy hazel eyes sought Sam's.

"Shotgun's right here. Finish it, please. Don't let me burn up, Sammy, okay? I know it's my fault but don't let me burn." Dean's gaze dropped to the shotgun on the floor.

Sam swallowed against the lump in his throat, focusing on keeping his brother awake. "Dean! None of this is real, Dean! We're in Raleigh and something is trying to make you think you're dying. You've got to fight back! You've got to get up and follow me out!"

Dean met his brother's eyes, trying to focus. Sam held Dean's gaze, trying to send his brother strength. A long moment passed, then finally Dean said, "Raleigh?" Sam almost shouted for joy.

"Yeah, Raleigh. Think, Dean. Remember Charleston? Abigail and the Cashion place? The headaches, the thing that chased you? It's attacking your mind, Dean, making you think this is real."

Dean's eyes drooped closed again and Sam grew frantic.

"Dean!" Sam turned to Sarah. "Can't you do something?"

She shook her head. "I can't touch him, either. Just keep talking to him, Sam."

"Cornbread," said Dean faintly, and Sam whipped his head back around to look at his brother.

"What?"

"Good cornbread. Charleston." Dean opened his eyes. They seemed clearer now. "Gonna burn that damn house down, too."

Sam nodded, encouraging. "Believe me, I'll help you. But you've got to get up and follow me."

"Tired, Sammy." But Dean was trying to move.

"C'mon Dean, you can do it." Sam watched as his brother slowly swung his legs around and braced his right arm on the floor, coming to all fours. He noticed that Dean was favoring his left arm and breathing hard. Sam glanced back at the fire, which was coming closer.

"Dean, hurry, there isn't much time," Sam urged, earning a pale imitation of an irritated glare from his brother.

"Quit nagging, Sam." Dean sounded frustrated, probably at his own weakness, Sam surmised. But he was moving, slowly gathering his feet underneath him and pulling himself up by using the wall. Once there, he leaned against it, tilting his head back and catching his breath.

"Take the gun," said Sam suddenly.

Dean shot his brother an "are you freaking kidding me?" look. "I just barely got vertical and you want me to bend and lift? What the hell do I need a shotgun for where we're going? Dammit, Sammy, just lead me into the light or whatever the hell and let's get out of here."

"Take it," Sam repeated.

"You take it, if you want the damn thing so much."

"I can't," said Sam.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," began Dean, but he didn't finish the complaint, and Sam watched his brother's eyes fix on a point behind him and to his right.

Sam turned to see John Winchester standing in the middle of the room, a shotgun trained on Sam's chest.

"Dad?" Sam said involuntarily.

"That's not your father, Sam," said Sarah, stepping forward.

The fake Winchester turned to her, smiling coldly. "You weren't invited," he said, swinging the gun around and firing at Sarah. Sarah gasped and then vanished.

"Sarah!" cried Sam, looking around frantically. "What did you do?" he demanded of the thing in the room.

"In Dean's head, rock salt banishes spirits. He saw her as a spirit, and poof! Banished." Sam's not-father pumped the second round into the shotgun's chamber. "Guess what he thinks you are? "

Suddenly Dean was between Sam and his father, clutching the shotgun in his right hand. "Leave him alone, Dad."

"Dean, that's not dad," began Sam, but Dean didn't seem to hear.

"Sam's dead, Dean." said John calmly. "Don't you remember? You got him killed on your last hunting trip. He's haunting you, son. Trying to pull you out of this world. Don't fall for it."

Dean blinked in confusion. "No...he's trying to help me."

John laughed. "Help you? Why would he do that? He resented you, son, for pulling him back in and getting his girlfriend killed." John stepped closer, ignoring Sam. "He tried to kill you, remember? Pulled that trigger how many times?"

Dean's arm dropped, the shotgun now pointing harmlessly at the floor. "Sammy isn't dead," he insisted faintly.

Sam was yelling at Dean, screaming at him to fight, but Dean wasn't looking at him anymore.

"You're confused, son. Grief does strange things to weak minds. Come on with me, now, and I'll help you." the fake John put his hand on Dean's shoulder, urging him forward.

Dean hesitated, turning to look at Sam. "Sammy?" he asked quietly.

"Please, Dean. Fight it. For me." Sam realized he was crying, and wished his brother would mock him or call him a pussy or something, but Dean only looked unspeakably sad and defeated.

Both John and Dean Winchester lifted shotguns, firing simultaneously.


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N - Sincere thanks to all who've kept reading and reviewing; I really appreciate the feedback even though I'm a pathetic respondent.**

Sam felt a sensation like being pushed, and realized that the imposter wearing John Winchester's face had fired at him and that the imaginary rock salt had found its target--and now Dean, believing that Sam was a banished spirit, was shutting Sam out of his mind. He looked up at Dean, who was staring back at him with a shell-shocked expression. The crumpled form of "John Winchester" lay a few feet away, a pool of blood spreading beneath him. Apparently Dean had imagined rounds stronger than rock salt for his own gun, and he had used them against a man he believed to be his own father, his hero, in order to save his brother.

Sam struggled against the forces pushing him out of the burning room. He had to show Dean the way out, or his brother could still die, trapped in his own mind.

"Dean! You have to leave this room, do you hear me? Just walk through the door! Please--you have to get out of here!" Dean was still motionless, surrounded by the spreading flames. In a sudden realization, Sam saw what he must have looked like to Dean when his brother pulled him out of the burning apartment in Stanford, and Sam panicked. If Dean hadn't come after him and dragged him out, Sam would have been too paralyzed by guilt, shock and sorrow to leave the bedroom. He would have died with Jess; hell, for a long time afterward he wished he had died with Jess, but now he knew better, and it was all because his brother had saved him.

"Dean! Please!" Sam pushed back with everything he had, but it wasn't enough--he didn't know how to overcome Dean's barriers. He shouted his brother's name one last time as the room faded from view.

Sam came to with a start, finding himself still on the bed and half-draped over his brother's chest. Quickly he moved his head, placed his ear over Dean's heart, and listened. The heartbeat was faint and sluggish. "No!" Sam shouted, pushing himself to a sitting position. "No!" Sam looked frantically around the room, searching for Sarah. He caught a glimpse of blue tracksuit on the floor on the far side of the room, and quickly ran to her side. Sarah was breathing, but she was unconscious.

As Sam stared helplessly at the older woman, her words came back to him. "You're strong enough to do this on your own."

Rushing back to the bed, Sam cradled Dean's head in his hands and closed his eyes. "Please," he whispered. "Please live."

_The shock of seeing his brother vanish spurred Dean into motion. "Sam?" he called, smoke burning his lungs and making him cough. He dropped to his knees, trying to get below the thickest part of the smoke, turning in a slow circle and squinting through the haze. Sam had just been right there, telling Dean that their father wasn't...Dean looked down at the bleeding body that lay nearby. If Sam was real, and their father wasn't, then why was John the one lying on the floor? Sam wouldn't have tricked him, would he? Had his father been right--did Sam hate him that much? Dropping the shotgun, Dean scrambled across the floor to his father, but something stopped him short of touching the motionless form._

_Memories flashed through Dean's mind in rapid succession: coordinates on a phone, the smell of lighter fluid and the electric grip of a madman, his brother standing over him with a pistol, pastel houses and the smell of the sea, his father punching him in their Kansas home as Sam burned on the ceiling, a river of blood, running on soggy ground, cornbread, his mother, and finally Sam, crying._

_The last image snapped Dean out of his confusion. No, his brother hadn't lied--he had been here, which meant that Dean had to find him, which further meant that Dean was going to have to find a way through that fire, weakness be damned. Dean braced himself, trying to block out his pain and fear. "Just run through it," he told himself, when it occurred to him that he wasn't sure anymore where the doorway was--the flames had formed a ring around him and the smoke was obscuring everything beyond._

_"C'mon, Sam, which way did you go?" muttered Dean, desperation rising._

_"This way!" Sam's voice came from behind him and Dean turned, seeing nothing._

_"Sammy?"_

_"The door is this way--just follow my voice!"_

_Dean hesitated, glancing once more at the body on the floor. If he was wrong..._

_"Trust me!"_

_If he was wrong, then it didn't matter anymore, did it? Dean pulled himself up, took a deep breath and ran into the fire._

Sarah Wilson sat up slowly, putting a hand to her throbbing head. The older Winchester boy had a helluva set of mental defenses when they were triggered--it was no wonder the creature pursuing him had needed him physically weak to gain access to his mind. Then Sarah caught a whiff of smoke in the air. Memory returned in a rush and she struggled to her feet and staggered to the bed, almost tripping over Sam, who lay sprawled on the floor. Kneeling quickly, she took his pulse and concentrated, checking his aura. It was strong, steady, and the brightest blue she had ever seen, fairly pulsing with power. Satisfied that Sam was fine, Sarah stood automatically and looked at Dean.

His face looked pinker and less waxy, but that wasn't the most amazing thing. As Sarah drew closer, she saw a few wisps of white smoke trailing off of Dean's skin, dissipating into the air. Afraid to touch him at first, Sarah concentrated on viewing his aura instead. It was pale but present, and the gray was fading away practically before her eyes. She blew out a deep sigh of relief, and reached for Dean's wrist, intending to check his pulse.

A strong hand suddenly gripped Sarah's forearm, forcing a startled gasp from her lips. She looked down into hooded hazel eyes that, though tired and weak, glinted dangerously.

"Who the hell are you, and where's Sammy?" Dean's voice was rough with smoke and worry.

Sarah forced herself to remain calm. "I'm Sarah Wilson, and Sam is fine." She met Dean's gaze, waiting for his reaction. After a moment, Dean released her wrist, his arm falling limply to the bed. Sarah realized that Dean's sudden action had taken most of his strength, and wondered how badly bruised she'd have been if Dean wasn't so incapacitated.

"Where are we?"

"You're in Raleigh. Sam brought you here after you collapsed in Charleston."

Dean's eyes closed briefly, and Sarah could feel the tension leaving his body. She watched him struggle to open them again, only managing to force them halfway.

"Sam's okay?" Dean's voice was quieter now as exhaustion took him.

"Yes. Just rest now."

"mmmhmmm," Dean's eyes drifted closed, and Sarah smiled.


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N - Remember like 7 chapters ago when I said we were halfway done? I lied. Expositionville ahead, and the setup for the actual ending of the story.**

Sam woke with a start, bolting upright. His head hurt and he swore he could smell the lingering aroma of smoke. After a moment's confusion, he realized that he was lying on the floor of Sarah's downstairs guest bedroom, right beside the bed. Someone, probably Sarah, had put a pillow under his head and covered him with a blanket. Late afternoon sunlight filtered through the window blinds, and Sam figured that he had been out for a while. He quickly looked over at the figure on the bed, his brother's name forming on his lips.

Dean looked pinker, and Sam could see his chest rising and falling steadily. Sam sighed in relief and rested his head against the side of the bed, feeling a week's worth of worry and fear draining away.

Sarah quietly entered the room, switching on the bedside lamp when she saw that Sam was awake.

Sam straightened. "How is he?" he asked.

"Still weak, but recovering. I don't read any traces of that thing in his aura, so I'm fairly confident he repelled the attack. Mind filling me in on what happened after I got kicked out?"

Sam nodded and told Sarah about being tossed out of Dean's mind and his attempt to get back to his brother. Sarah's eyebrows lifted and she looked impressed.

"You do have some powerful abilities, Sam," she said. "But it explains why you've been out for so long--you forced yourself through some pretty heavy mental defenses to get back to Dean. Your brother's no slouch at keeping people out of his head."

Sam gave her a half-smile. Sarah could probably guess that was true in more ways than one.

The psychic looked over at Dean. "Normally, I'd let him rest, but I think we should try to at least get some liquids down him--he needs to rebuild his strength." She glanced back at Sam, rubbing her forearm absently. "You want to wake him up? I don't want to startle him." Sarah headed out of the room, adding, "I'll be back with some soup and sandwiches in a jiffy."

After Sarah left, Sam pushed himself up and sat on the edge of the bed.

"Dean," he said softly, shaking his brother's shoulder, "wake up, man." He repeated the words and the gesture three times before he was rewarded with a response--Dean's hand came up and slapped Sam's away from his body, though his eyes remained closed.

"Knock it off," Dean murmured. "Tryin' to get my beauty rest."

Sam snorted and shook him a little harder, secretly pleased and relieved at his getting such a normal reaction from his brother.

"Aw c'mon, Sammy!" Whining, Dean finally gave in and opened his eyes, blinking a few times in an attempt to focus. His eyes fixed on Sam, and he cleared his throat. After a moment, he spoke. "That sucked," he said.

"Yeah." Sam suddenly didn't have any idea what else to say--memories of the morning's events were coming back to him. A desire to reassure his brother fought with the knowledge that Dean would be resistant and embarrassed and wouldn't want to mention it.

Dean saw the impending chick flick moment coming, and held up a hand. "No. Absolutely not."

"Dean..."

"Sam, I am on my back in a strange bed in my underwear and you're perching on the bed looking like a kicked puppy. If you start talking about feelings, I will be forced to stab you."

"You promised me an Oprah," Sam pointed out.

"I lied."

"Dean, seriously." Sam caught the almost desperate look in his big brother's eyes and realized that once again, his timing was horrible. He dropped his head in acquiescence. "Fine. Not now." Sam lifted his eyes to Dean's. "But once you're mobile and dressed, there will be a conversation." Sam ignored Dean's eye roll and stood, picking up the pillow and blanket he'd left on the floor and starting to put them away.

"Speaking of, where are my clothes?" asked Dean.

"Sarah washed the ones you arrived in. The other stuff's still in the car."

"She washed my leather jacket? You can't wash leather!"

"Uh, about the jacket..."

"What about my jacket, Sam?"

Sam was spared having to reply by Sarah's entrance. She looked surprised at Dean's level of alertness and paused, studying him.

The scrutiny made Dean uncomfortable, and then suspicious.

"What?" he asked sharply. "Do I have horns growing out of my head or something?"

"Well, not unless your hair always looks that bad," Sarah shot back, smiling as Dean's hands flew to his head. "No," she continued, "I'm just surprised at how quickly you're bouncing back."

Dean grinned. "I must be living right."

"Mmhmm," Sarah sat a tray bearing two bowls of soup, assorted sandwiches, and a couple of cokes down on the dresser. "You boys eat, and I'll come check on you again in an hour or so. It's supper and homework time for the kids, so I'm needed elsewhere. If you need anything, just holler for Keith--my husband."

After she left, Sam helped Dean get propped up in the bed and handed him some soup. Despite his brother's bravado, Dean was still sluggish and weak. The boys were too hungry to talk; they ate in silence. Finally Dean tilted his soup bowl back and finished off the last of it.

"That was awesome," he said, handing the empty bowl to Sam. "I suppose I should ask you how we got here, and where here is, exactly."

Sam quickly filled Dean in on the events of the past 24 hours. When Sam finished, Dean looked thoughtful.

"So did I kill it?" he asked.

"What?"

"When I shot that--thing that looked like Dad, did I kill it? It was on the floor, bleeding..." Dean trailed off when he noticed Sarah standing in the doorway. She came the rest of the way into the room, closing the door behind her.

"Sorry for eavesdropping, fellas, but Dean, I don't think you killed it," said the psychic.

"How do you know?" challenged Sam.

"You definitely got it out of your head, but it wasn't corporeal at the time you 'killed' it," Sarah told Dean.

"It punched me in the damn jaw!" said Dean, "That felt pretty freaking corporeal to me!"

"It punched you because you believed it could, not because it was really there..." Sarah sighed. "Look, this thing is strong enough to send you leading text messages, to lure you into danger, to mimic voices on phones, to pick you up and slam you into walls, and to continue a psychic attack without being in physical proximity to you. It's not going to die because you imagined you killed it."

Sam looked at Dean, worried.

Dean's jaw clenched. "So how do I kill it?"

Sarah shrugged. "My best guess is to draw it out, make it corporeal, then kill it."

"How do we find it?" asked Sam.

Sarah held up Dean's cellphone. "I don't think that'll be a problem," she said, showing them the display, which containedan anonymous text messagewith a new set of coordinates.


	13. Chapter 13

Sam studied the text message--the coordinates were the same ones that had appeared on his brother's cellphone as Sam was preparing their panicked flight from Charleston--then looked at Dean, who looked grimly determined.

"Dean?" Sam's brother looked back at him, but didn't seem to see him. Sam felt a tingle of apprehension, but he wasn't sure why.

"Look up the coordinates, Sam, and let's get on the road."

"Says the man flat on his back in the bed," Sam covered his unease with sarcasm. "In case it's escaped your notice, bro, you were pretty close to being dead less than 12 hours ago."

Sarah chose this moment to step in, stopping Dean's half-formed reply by lifting her hand. "Hold on, both of you. First, neither of you Winchesters is going anywhere until you've had a couple of days' rest. Second, you need a plan."

"I have a plan, and it consists of killing this evil sonofabitch," retorted Dean.

The psychic rolled her eyes. "Chill out, Rambo. You'll get your shot, but I want to make sure you're prepared."

"We know what we're doing," said Dean defensively.

"I'm not saying you don't. I'm saying that I can probably give you more information on what this thing is and what it wants."

Sam looked interested. "Are you picking something up from handling the cell phone?"

Sarah nodded. "Yeah, but it's hard to pin down." She turned to Dean. "When that thing threw you against the wall in Charleston, do you remember where it touched you?"

Dean looked nonplussed by the question but he answered, "It felt like it grabbed me by the front of my jacket and tossed me backward." After a moment's thought, he added, "And then I felt something cold touch the back of my neck when we were running to the car--just before we reached it."

Sam's eyes widened, and Sarah approached the bed. "Do you mind if I sit?" she asked, and Dean slid over a bit, making room. "Where did it touch you, exactly?" Dean indicated a spot just below the hairline on the back of his neck, and Sarah lifted her hand, pausing to ask, "May I?" Dean looked at her warily, then sighed and gave a short nod. Sarah pressed her hand to the spot and closed her eyes.

Sam managed to suppress his laughter at Dean's obviously embarrassed discomfort. Dean caught him smiling, though, and scowled.

After a moment, Sarah's eyes opened. "I think you boys have attracted the attention of an honest-to-goodness demon," she said.

Sam and Dean exchanged glances. "Attracted, how?" asked Sam. Sarah looked surprised.

"Well, the usual way, of course..." she stopped when she realized that neither brother had the foggiest idea of what she was talking about. Blue eyes focused on Sam.

"Didn't Missouri--well, she probably didn't have an opportunity to, with everything that was going on, but still..." Sarah paused, shaking her head as if to clear her thoughts. Missouri had told Sarah everything about the Winchester family when she had called that morning, but Sarah had sensed some hesitation in her friend's voice, as though she were witholding something...protecting someone. The psychic sighed.

"Look, you know things have been happening to you lately, right?" Dean's eyes flew to Sam's face, concerned. The younger Winchester's jaw clenched, but he nodded.

Sarah continued, "Has anyone ever read your auras for you?" Hearing Dean's derisive snort, she fixed him with a firm glare. "It's what I do, how I can tell what's wrong with the people who come here for help."

"Dean..." warned Sam. Dean made a sceptical face but subsided.

"Your aura," she said, indicating Sam, "is practically a beacon to anything with an appetite for power. Fortunately, most of the dark creatures you hunt are nowhere near strong enough to do anything about it, so the main effect of your power is that spirits are attracted to you--with all the fun stuff that entails, like prophetic dreams and a slightly higher vulnerability to possession."

"But there are some things, real demons, who want to use that power for themselves--either to gain permanent physical access to this plane, or to enhance their ability to cause pain and suffering once they're here. We're lucky that only a very few of them manage to break the barrier that keeps them from this world--they can cause enough trouble in non-corporeal form, as you know--but occasionally some do. I think that the thing that's after you sees Sam as its ticket into this world, and is trying to maneuver you into a position where it can tap into Sam's power and use it to push through the barrier."

Sam was frowning. "So why did it attack Dean?"

"Ah, and here's where it gets interesting." Sarah looked at Dean. "Your aura is the equivalent of a red flag to a bull--a dare or a challenge. Any demon who noticed Sam would immediately see you as the main obstacle to its goal, and react accordingly." Sarah stood, pacing a little as she spoke.

"But the really special thing about you two is the way your auras compliment one another--it's like they work in tandem, the stronger compensating for the weaker when necessary. You sometimes see this in twins or twin souls, but it's very rare. You can't get to Sam without going through Dean, and vice-versa. It makes you extremely effective hunters, and explains why you both seem to recover so quickly from injuries and attacks. And any demon would be driven almost mad by the thought of what it could do if given access to your combined power." Sarah stopped pacing and directed a serious look at Sam.

"I think this thing figured Dean would be out of the picture by now--and that it would have gained enough of his strength to help it break Sam. This last set of coordinatesare meant to bring Sam to the place where the demon intends to enter this world."

Dean realized he was staring at Sarah with his mouth open, so he closed it and cleared his throat. "Okay, so we go to the coordinates and...what? Purify the site and hope that closes the barrier?"

Sam shook his head. "No. It would just keep trying until it found another site. We've got to let it break through and kill it."

"No way, Sammy. Didn't you hear her? It's a freaking demon! Silver bullets and rock salt won't touch it, exorcism won't send it back once it has a body, and I'm not real keen on the idea of going a few rounds hand-to-hand with the thing."

"Fire. Fire will destroy it." Sam had a strange look in his eyes, and Dean's gaze turned wary in response.

"How do you know that?"

"I just do, Dean." Dark eyes focused on hazel. "Trust me."

Dean blew out a breath and threw up his hands, looking back to Sarah. "And your expert opinion?" he asked.

"I think Sam's right," she said.

"I have another question," Dean continued, "why is this happening now? Why is Sammy all of a sudden psychic boy after 22 years of, well, being normal?" Dean avoided his brother's incredulous reaction to his use of the word "normal" in conjunction with their family.

Sarah smiled and shrugged. "Who knows? Psychic puberty?"

Dean grinned. "I always knew you were a late bloomer, Sammy."

He barely managed to duck the pillow that Sam chucked at his head.


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N - Thank you again and again for the reviews. And now, chapter 14, wherein our heroes have a conversation and Dean finds out what happened to his jacket. Straightforward action will resume in the next chapters.**

Sarah went to get the upstairs guest room prepared for Sam, and left the brothers to their own devices. After his joke at Sam's expense, Dean had fallen silent, and after a few moments Sam decided to try and draw him out.

"So, whaddya think?"

Dean looked over at Sam from under lowered brows. "I know what you're doing," he said.

Sam wasn't a good liar, mainly because he was really bad at feigning innocence. "What?" he said, eyes open just a bit too wide to be believeable.

Dean sighed. "You think that I'm sitting here wondering if any of the jobs we thought dad sent us have been from dad."

Sam was genuinely surprised. "Actually, that wasn't it, but now that you mention it.."

"Well then what were you asking?" Dean interrupted.

"You're changing the subject."

"You're the one who had a subject to bring up--I'm just asking about it!"

"Dean..." Sam tilted his head and looked at his brother, exasperated.

"Sam..." Dean mocked Sam's pose and inflection.

Sam grunted in frustration and gave in. "I just wanted to know what you thought about this whole--aura thing."

Dean grimaced. "I'd rather discuss whether or not we've been getting jerked around by a demon for the past six months."

Sam merely looked at him.

"Oh, all right. Let's do this before your head explodes."

"Do what?"

"Your Oprah thing--the whole touchy-feely sharing thing! Let's just get it over with!"

"I'm not some emotionally needy loser, you know," said Sam defensively, "it's just that after...well..."

Dean could be remarkably astute when he wanted to be, or when he was trying to get an emotional discussion over with as quickly as possible. "After the asylum. You want to know if you hurt my feelings? 'Cause maybe deep down you know you meant all that stuff, and you want to know if I think you meant it."

"No, Dean! I didn't..." Sam gave up trying to lie and wiped his suddenly sweaty palms on his jeans, nodding.

"Listen to me, because I will say this once and only once and then we will never speak of it again." Dean waited until Sam met his eyes.

"I know you would never deliberately try to hurt me. I also know that you resent the hell out of me, because I'm the big brother and I do what dad asks and most of the time I like doing it. And I'm beginning to think that maybe somewhere inside you, somewhere you don't want to think about, you're blaming me for Jess," he held up a hand to stop Sam's protest, "because you were with me when that thing killed her. Does that hurt? What do you think?"

"But you saved me, too, Sam. Got me away from that demon and pulled my ass out of the fire, and you're family, so I'll get over it." Sam didn't say anything, and Dean drew in a breath, preparing for the rest of it.

Dean's expression was pained as he continued, "And all I can say is I'm sorry, Sam. I'm sorry you didn't have a perfect normal life, and that you never knew mom and that Jessica died, but what did you expect? We aren't normal, we never were, and I'm tired of hearing about how gypped you feel. I lost mom too, you know? And I remember some of what that meant, so I'm tired of hearing you run dad down. He did the best he could, and so did I, and if that's not enough--if you hate this life and us that much, then go back to Stanford, pick up the pieces, and let me handle the fighting. You know I won't stop until I find the thing that killed mom and Jess and destroy it."

Anger crossed Sam's features as he replied, "Do you think I don't want to find dad and destroy that thing? And after all that's happened--you know I can't go back to Stanford!"

"Of course you could if you really wanted to, Sam. You'd study law, have weird dreams, call my cellphone and I'd go kill the bad things." Dean sighed. "It's not a contest over who's the better hunter or more loyal son. You need to decide what you really want, Sam. We do good. We help people that no one else can help, and that's enough for me. If you're gonna stay, then I need to know that you're really with me--your head's in the game and you're watching my back--and not just counting the days until you can go back to your real life."

"Dean..." Sam dropped his head for a moment and ran a hand through his hair, pacing. "I don't hate you, man. I never could. It's just so damn unfair and it makes me so angry and guilty and scared and I just want--I want to finish it, and then I look at you and you're actually enjoying this life and I can't stand it sometimes!" He stood still after his tirade, waiting for his brother's reaction.

"What can I say? I'm an optimist. And as I keep reminding you, this life does have its perks."

"Dean, I'm being serious."

"So am I. You're my brother. Bottom line, I want you to be happy. But you've gotta figure out what's gonna make you that way yourself."

Sam looked away, eyes stinging, and nodded. "So we're okay?"

"Yeah." Dean cleared his throat, looking relieved. "And the next time we have a conversation like that will be over my dead body--although I reserve the right to haunt your ass if you get all weepy on me."

"How will you know if I do? You'll be dead!"

"Big brothers always know these things, young padawan."

"If you don't stop with the Star Wars references that dead body thing is going to happen a lot sooner than you think."

"Says you, string bean. I can kick your ass from here."

"Yeah, right."

"Wanna try me?"

Sarah walked in just as Sam was preparing to pounce. "What are you doing? When I said you bounced back quickly I didn't mean you should start wrestling immediately after a near-death experience!" She pointed a finger at Sam. "You! The upstairs guest room is ready, your clothes are clean and the bathroom is empty. Get moving!" Sam looked sheepish and complied, but waited until Sarah's back was to him and then flipped his brother off, grinning at the knowledge that Dean couldn't retaliate. Dean glared at his retreating back.

The psychic looked at Dean. "You guys cleared the air, I see," she said, and smiled at Dean's discomfort. "Don't worry, I won't pry. Just wanted to let you know that the downstairs bathroom is free if you feel up to a shower. Clean clothes are already in there--I washed what you arrived in."

Dean's eyes widened. "My jacket?"

"What jacket?"

"The leather jacket I had on in Charleston--you didn't wash it, did you?"

"You can't wash leather, Dean," Sarah said, looking puzzled and then alarmed. "Oh, you don't mean..."

"Where's my jacket?"

"Well, Sam had a couple of bags filled with blood soaked clothing that couldn't be salvaged, so I took the liberty of disposing of it for him--had Keith run it out to the dump so as not to arouse the suspicions of any nosy garbage collectors or neighbors."

"Oh, man. I loved that jacket."

"Sorry, Dean, but there will be other leather jackets."

"Not like that one." Dean's expression grew hard. "I am so burning down that house in Charleston."


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N - Thanks for the positive feedback on 14--Dean's voice is hard to find when you're doing chick-flick stuff. And no, I'm not at all allergic to chocolate brownies, so bring them on! This chapter is pure exposition. Wolf Laurel is a real place, but I've taken some license with it. Ass-kicking will commence in Chapter 16, and Chapter 17 will probably wrap this story up.**

Three days later, Sam and Dean Winchester were loading the car for their trip to a place called Wolf Laurel, North Carolina, located in the Blue Ridge mountains about five hours west of Raleigh. This was where the last set of coordinates were pointing, and Sam had been unable to dig up any mention of strange deaths or unexplained happenings in the area. He and Dean figured that this meant Sarah's hunch had been right; the demon was luring them there in an attempt to cross into the physical plane, and they had planned accordingly.

Sam couldn't help but smile a little as he stood on the front porch and watched his brother making the last minute preparations, checking their weapons and supplies, and even making sure that his precious upholstery no longer bore any traces of their bloody encounter with Abigail--Dean seemed to be everywhere at once, practically vibrating with excitement and energy.

"He's like a kid at Christmas," observed Sarah, who had come to stand next to Sam, "You'd never believe that anyone could be this excited about encountering a demon."

Sam nodded. On a hunt, Dean truly was in his element. Sam felt foolish for not realizing it earlier; he had always assumed that Dean was like him, wanting a normal life, and part of his resentment toward his brother had been fueled by the thought that Dean wasn't being true to himself and was following their father out ofblind loyaltyand a desire to please, to be the better son. Knowing that wasn't true took a weight off the younger Winchester's shoulders somehow. It also made Sam feel almost jealous, wishing he could be that comfortable in this life, but he shook it off. There would be time to think about the future later, and if Sam were honest with himself he'd have to admit that in this case he was as anxious as his brother was for a little payback.

Sarah turned her attention from Dean and focused on Sam, looking serious. "Your presence will most likely trigger the demon's attack, and it will only be strong enough to really come at you after nightfall. I know we've been over this a million times, Sam, but I've got to tell you one more time--your first concern, beyond reinforcing the circle of protection, beyond the incantation that will slow this thing down enough for Dean to destroy it--your first concern, your only concern, is in not allowing yourself to be separated from your brother, no matter what. Neither of you can take this demon out alone."

"I know," said Sam, and Sarah nodded her approval. Dean had finished his last checks and came bounding up the steps to the front porch, whistling under his breath. Sam rolled his eyes as he recognized the tune--_Iron Man _by Black Sabbath.

"Well, we're packed up and good to go," said Dean, looking from Sarah to Sam. "You ready, bro?"

"Sure thing." Sam extended his hand to Sarah, "Thanks for everything. We'll never be able to repay you." Sarah ignored the hand in favor of a tight hug. "Just kill that demon, Sam. That'll be thanks enough." Sam smiled and stepped out of the embrace, clearing the way for Sarah to get to Dean.

The psychic just laughed at the suddenly wary look on the elder Winchester's face. "C'mere, you," she said, hugging him. After a moment, Dean returned the hug, but kept his smile hidden. Sarah released Dean and then held up a hand. "I almost forgot--one more thing before you go."

Sarah disappeared into the house and returned a minute later bearing a thermos, which she handed to Sam. "A little something to help you both see more clearly when you're fighting this demon," she said. "It's a special tea--an old recipe--that enhances the sixth sense."

Dean looked at her as though she'd grown a second head. "Are you giving us drugs?" he asked.

"No, you goober, just an herbal tea. It helps me read difficult auras, clears the areas of my mind that I use in reading objects. I think it'll help you use your strengths more effectively, that's all. Drink it when you reach the coordinates--one cup each, and then afterward, if you need to, to help you recover."

Dean looked ready to comment, but Sam cut him off. "Thanks again, Sarah."

Sarah watched them get into the Impala, calling out, "Y'all call and let me know how it turns out now, you hear?"

"Yes mom," Dean said under his breath but Sam just smiled and waved, saying, "We promise!"

Five hours later, the Winchesters found themselves on yet another winding two lane road as they ascended the thickly forested mountain where Wolf Laurel was located. Although it was late autumn and a lot of the trees had lost their foliage, the trees were so close together and there was so much vegetation that Dean felt uncomfortably hemmed in by their surroundings. Near the top of the mountain, Dean spotted a pair of open gates with lettering that read Welcome to Wolf Laurel Ski Resort. Sam checked the GPS and nodded, so Dean turned off the main road and started up the steeply sloping drive.

The resort was fairly small--a lodge, some lifts, and a few scattered homes were the only structures on the property. There hadn't been any snowfall yet, so there were no skiers, and neither Dean nor Sam could see any employees.

"Let's check it out," said Dean, and the brothers exited the car, shivering as the cold hit them. The temperature had dropped as they had climbed, and the wind had picked up as well; at this altitude it was no longer blocked by the surrounding mountains.

The brothers headed over to the lodge, where a wraparound porch afforded a 360 degree view of the mountain they were on. They made a slow circuit of the porch, scanning the landscape.

As they came around to the north-facing side of the lodge, Sam found what they were looking for. "Dean, look!" he said, indicating a ski run that was bisected by an enormous boulder. Even from this distance, Dean could see that there was a ring around the boulder where nothing was growing, and not just because it was autumn. The land surrounding the rock looked blasted, blackened soil like a gash against the greens and browns nearby.

"That looks about 1/2 mile away from here, at least," Dean said, and checked his watch. It was 3:00. "We need to get our supplies and get a move on--we're going to have to climb that ski run on foot, and we're almost out of daylight."

"Yeah," said Sam, suppressing a shiver, and they headed back to the car to prepare.

By 5:00, Dean, Sam, and what looked to be a small arsenal of flammable items were assembled in the shadow of a large rock in the middle of a ski resort in western North Carolina. Dean had cleared space and built a small fire--both for warmth and for weaponry--inside their protective circle. Both brothers knew that it wouldn't hold long, but they hoped it would give them enough time to torch the demon once it appeared. Sam sat huddled near the fire, his father's journal with the incantations they'd deemed most useful in one hand, a cup of Sarah's special tea in the other. The tea tasted good, spicy and still warm despite the long journey. He finished his, and poured out a cup for Dean, who hesitated a little bit before drinking it, studying Sam closely.

"What?" Sam asked finally, tired of being stared at.

Dean shrugged. "Just wanted to see if you were going to start yelling about being the lizard king or anything, dude. You know how I am about all this spiritual brotherly auraenhancing mumbo-jumbo."

Sam lifted an eyebrow. "So don't drink it."

Dean shook his head. "Can't let you have all the fun, now, can I?" he asked, downing his in one gulp and smacking his lips afterward. "That wasn't half bad." He checked his watch again. 5:15. It wouldn't be long now.


	16. Chapter 16

It was just past dusk when Sam heard a faint rumbling sound. "Did you hear that?" he asked Dean, "It sounded like thunder."

Dean looked skyward and sighed. "That's because it probably is thunder, Sammy. Looks like a storm may be coming in."

Sam followed his gaze, frowning at the dark clouds obscuring the stars and moon. "A thunderstorm in late November?"

"It happens," shrugged Dean. "Means it'll snow in two weeks--the skiers will be happy."

Sam wished they'd listened to the local weather forecast instead of Iron Maiden on the way up, and fed another piece of kindling to the fire. The blaze wasn't as big as Sam would have liked, but they couldn't afford to draw attention to themselves before the job was done, and Dean was concerned that the wind might cause the fire to spread out of control. He had assured Sam that there was sufficient flame to ignite the gasoline in his homemade molotov cocktails and the kerosene soaked rags he'd wrapped around some logs to use as torches. Plus, he'd said, grinning that trademark grin, if worst came to worst he had an incendiary grenade tucked into his jacket that dad had gotten from one of his munitions connections.

The rumbling came again, closer, and the ground underneath their feet shook. It wasn't thunder. Dean and Sam both turned toward the boulder, and Dean ignited one of his torches. Sam focused harder on the rock in front of him--in the firelight it looked as though the rock was covered by a shimmering shadow several shades darker than the surrounding night. The temperature began dropping quickly, just as it had in Charleston. Sam flipped to the first incantation and began reading, hoping to slow the demon's progress.

Dean was also staring at the shadow covering the rock, trying to figure out where it was coming from, but a soft glow to his right distracted him and he glanced over at Sam, then started. His brother's form was outlined in bright blue light. Dean's eyes widened in recognition--the tea had worked and he was looking at his brother's aura. "Okay, this is kinda cool," he thought, before turning his attention back to the demon's entryway and stooping to pick up one of his molotov cocktails. He hoped to hit the demon before it had passed completely through the barrier, and so was searching for any opening that might be allowing the shadow to seep through.

But when the opening appeared, it didn't happen as Dean had thought it would--with a small, gradually widening fissure. Instead, the barrier blew outward all at once, sending chunks of granite and earth directly at the Winchesters. A good sized rock grazed Dean's temple and the force of the blast knocked him off his feet, the momentum carrying him several yards down the mountain and outside of the circle's protection. He finally managed to stop himself from sliding further downhill by grabbing at handfuls of grass and he quickly scrambled to his knees, getting his bearings.

It was then that the rain began, a sudden freezing deluge from above, and Dean heard their small fire begin hissing as the drops hit. "No fucking way!" he cried, looking up at the circle in disbelief.

Sam was lying motionless inside the circle, the journal still clutched in one hand. The blue light surrounding him was still present, though slightly less bright.

"Sam!" Dean called, hoping that his brother was stunned and not unconscious, but the lack of response confirmed his fears. "Dammit!" Dean started back up the mountain at a run, sliding on the wet grass. He had to get back to the circle and read the incantation himself, before the demon penetrated the circle's protections and got to Sam.

Five feet from the circle, Dean saw the light from the fire and from Sam's aura grow dim, as though a haze had fallen over them. And then Dean ran into what felt like a wall of ice, and realized that the demon was standing between him and the circle. Staggering backward from the impact, Dean watched as the shadows in front of him coalesced into an inky human form.

The demon was well over six feet tall, but had no distinguishable features other than two glowing slits for eyes. Those slits narrowed slightly, focusing on Dean, and the older Winchester brother felt the force of demonic hatred hit him like a physical blow, pushing him further back.

Though the demon had no mouth, Dean heard its voice in his head. "You can't protect your brother. I will destroy you and then I will use your strength to take his power for my own. Maybe I'll keep you alive long enough for you to see it happen."

Dean had lost his torch and his molotov cocktail in the fall, and when he reached inside his jacket for the incendiary grenade he came up empty. He felt rather than saw the demon's malicious smile. "Lose your toy?" it mocked him.

Without weapons Dean did the only thing he could think of--he ran forward, trying to angle away from the demon and toward the circle. But he had trouble getting traction on the wet ground and had underestimated both the demon's speed and its reach. Dean felt searing heat along his arm and left side as the demon gave him an almost casual swipe with its shadowy claws. He gasped, pulling himself away from the demon, and kept running, pressing his injured arm over what he knew were some pretty serious gashes in his side.

But no matter how he dodged or ran, the demon easily kept itself between Dean and his goal. Realizing that running was only going to exhaust him, Dean finally stopped and turned to face the demon, moving as close to it as he dared and shaking water droplets out of his eyes. The outline of the circle was a mere foot or so away, and Dean wasn't sure how quickly the rain would disrupt its power.

"Christo!" Dean shouted, and the demon flinched. That bit of distraction was all Dean needed, and he leapt, diving for the circle's protection, barely hearing the demon's roar of pain and rage through the sounds of rain and blood pounding in his ears. He landed hard and rolled, feeling the skin on his damaged right side tear further.

"Son of a bitch," Dean hissed, coming to his knees and clutching his side. He scooted over to Sam, checking him for injuries. From the size of the rapidly swelling lump on his brother's head, Dean figured that a decent-sized rock must have hit Sam pretty hard. Dean patted Sam's face, trying to rouse him.

"Sammy...Sam! Come on, bro, wake up! We're in some serious shit here, man!"

His brother's eyelids flickered open, then squinted against the water falling into them. "Dean?" Dean blew out a sigh of relief but didn't waste time explaining. The demon was attacking the circle's perimeter and Dean could tell they didn't have long.

"I need you to read, Sam, buy us some time," he half-shoved his brother into a sitting position, hunching him forward and pushing their father's journal underneath the slight protection that afforded. When Dean fumbled in the duffel bag and handed Sam a flashlight, his brother noticed the blood staining both the flashlight handle and the journal's pages.

"You're bleeding!"

"Just read, dammit!" A half-dazed Sam began the incantation, which only brought more howls of rage from the demon.

Dean scrambled back over to the duffel bag and grabbed all of the other molotov cocktails, tossing them one by one at the demon, whose attacks had been slowed by Sam's reading. If Dean could coat the demon with enough gasoline, maybe his lighter would work to ignite it...even as he thought it, Dean knew it was hopeless, but he continued his assault anyway, spraying leftover kerosene on the demon when he ran out of the molotovs.

Dean reached into the duffel for the lighter and struck it, miraculously producing a flame. Almost laughing in relief, he tossed it at the demon, only to see the flame sputter out as it reached its target.

And then the demon was through the barrier and on top of him, and all Dean could think about was that this wasn't right, some half-assed demon wasn't going to take him out before he'd found his mother's killer, and it sure as hell wasn't going to use him to kill his brother.

He could hear Sam yelling his name, but it sounded very far away, and Dean's world had narrowed to pain and cold blackness and glowing eyes and the smell of gasoline. Dean realized that he was yelling too, but he felt detached from it, as though it were happneing to someone else. He tried to focus on fighting back, staying alive long enough to save Sam. Then there was a blinding flash of greenish light from somewhere, and the demon was on fire, pulling away from Dean and screaming in pain and rage.

Then Sam was beside him, helping him sit up and pressing down on his bleeding side, dark eyes wide.

"What?" Dean managed after a moment--the look on his brother's face was starting to freak him out.

Sam shook his head, a half-smile on his features. "If I'm Carrie, you're the firestarter," he said wryly.


	17. Chapter 17

"How hard did you hit your head, Sam?" Dean was in no mood for riddles--he was freezing cold, soaking wet, and his side was killing him.

"Dean, you started that fire. I saw it."

"Can we talk about this after I'm warm, dry, and have stopped bleeding like a stuck pig?"

Sam helped his brother to his feet and together they staggered back down the mountain to the Impala.

Dean sat in the passenger seat and tried to keep constant pressure on his wounds, which only made them hurt worse, which only made him more aware of his miserable condition and how he got to be that way, which made him extremely confused and irritable.

His misery and ire only increased when Sam forced him to stand shirtless in the bathtub while his wounds were irrigated with holy water. The gashes bubbled and steamed and burned as though Sam had just doused them with napalm, as if Dean needed any more confirmation that he had indeed gone a few rounds hand-to-hand with a demon.

Dean ran his brother out of the bathroom with a few well-placed epithets and a bottle of hotel shampoo tossed at his shaggy head, and spent another 20 minutes letting extremely hot water drive the cold from his bones. He ignored Sam's pointed glare when he exited the bathroom, and pretended not to hear his brother cursing when the hot water ran out halfway through rinsing his hair. It served him right for not keeping it short, Dean thought, and scowled at the walls. He found that being pointlessly angry did a pretty good job of keeping his mind off of what had happened on that mountainside, and that was a good thing.

Unfortunately, Sam wasn't put off by Dean's attitude, because he knew his brother too well. He exited the bathroom, toweling his still soapy hair, and sat on the bed opposite Dean's.

"How did you do it?" Sam wanted to know.

"I didn't do it," insisted Dean.

"I saw a flash of green light--the same green as your aura--hit the demon, and it ignited."

"Are you sure it wasn't blue?" Dean asked. "Your aura is blue. In the dark, it may have looked green."

Sam smiled. "You could see my aura?"

Dean frowned. "Don't get all mushy about it, all right? Yeah, it was bright blue, and I could tell you were hurt because it got a little dimmer after that rock hit you."

Sam was nodding. "Yeah, and I could tell where you were injured because it looked like someone had taken a black magic marker and scribbled over your aura on your side." He paused. "Green fits you, you know?"

Dean was really beginning to wish he was asleep, or in Tahiti, or possibly dead. "Dude!" was all he managed to say, a plea to stop the embarrassing direction of the conversation, but Sam was on one of those analytical rolls he tended to get on, and wasn't going to be put off.

"No, Dean. The green, it sounds weird, but it was like the color was strength. Seeing it made me feel safe--protected."

Now that Dean was forced to think about it, the blue glow that had surrounded Sam had seemed to project serenity and power. Which was totally bizarre, so Dean stopped thinking about it and cleared his throat.

"It was a fluke. Sarah said the tea would enhance all our spiritual abilities, so maybe it let me tap into some one-time pyro fantasy or something. It saved our asses, ding-dong the demon's dead, we'll send Sarah a thank-you note and move on, okay?"

Sam nodded, but Dean didn't like his smile. It was his know-it-all superior smile, and it made Dean nervous. When they turned out the lights to get some sleep, Dean cautiously peered over at his brother's form, looking for the glow. He wasn't sure whether he was relieved or disappointed when he didn't see it.

Two weeks later, after a little R&R in Asheville followed by the defeat of a poltergeist in rural Tennessee, Sam and Dean stood outside the old Cashion place in Charleston. The purificaton ritual had been successful, and Sam had managed to keep Dean from committing arson, so it was a win-win.

"Been a helluva month, huh?" Dean said finally, and Sam nodded. Dean looked at the ground and sighed. He remembered his vow never to lie to family when it counted, and gathered the courage to speak.

"Sammy, we haven't gotten any more coordinates since that demon sent us to North Carolina," he said at last.

"I know," Sam replied quietly.

"I don't know what to do about finding dad, Sam, so I was thinking, you know, if you wanted to see about re-enrolling for the spring semester..." he trailed off when he saw his brother's angry expression.

"We're going to find dad, Dean," Sam said heatedly. "He's still alive, I know he is, and I'm not going to let you do this alone. I need to find him--need to find the thing that killed Jess. Something will break, I know it."

As if on cue, Dean's cell phone beeped to alert him to an incoming text message. He checked it and his eyes widened. Then he held the phone up to show Sam. More coordinates.

"You really need to warn me when you're going to have a premonition, dude," said Dean.

Sam just grinned at him. "And miss that freaked out deer in headlights face you make when it happens? What would be the fun in that?" he asked, dodging his brother's slap and running for the Impala.Dean's shouts of outrage and Sam's laughter trailed behind them as they ran.

**A/N - Thank you, thank you for the positive feedback and the virtual chocolate. This story began as my attempt to get Sam and Dean from the events of "Asylum" to the upcoming episode "Faith". The idea was that a prolonged exposure to psychic attacks could have lingering physcial effects, and I could still go in that direction, but decided not to do it here. These characters are just so much fun to write, and there's so much history there...well, you could just go on forever, and I almost did.**


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